(A conversation with a musician immediately after a jazz concert)
Me: Remember me?
Him: Of course.
Him: Yeah, you were in that thing (mimes ribbons fluttering gaily from a nipple), with that tiger coat. God, you were really flirting with me. And then, just when I thought I was definitely getting somewhere, you said goodbye and left.
Me: Ah. That wasn't personal. I do that with everyone.
Him: The flirting or the walking out?
Me: Both. I'm a tease. I promise everything and deliver nothing.
Him: Well, I guess I enjoyed it. I certainly didn't forget you. You're intelligent, attractive and obsessed with sex. My favourite combination.
Me (very brightly): Talking of sex, have you ever masturbated into your trombone?
Me: This seemingly endless pregnant pause means 'yes', doesn't it?
Me: You can't fool me.
Him: No, I was just trying to imagine it. I think the end is too wide, and the narrow part is too far into the instrument, and too narrow.
Me: Oh, no, you're thinking of fucking a trombone. I just meant ejaculating into it, or over it. Perhaps as a kind of messy christening ritual.
(Another long pause)
Him: No. I'm just wondering if that would make it nice and shiny. I might try it.
Me: That can be your homework for next time. But don't blame me if it corrodes the metal, will you? So what's the most unusual object you've ever masturbated onto or into?
Him: I can't think of one.
Me: Shall I tell you what other men have told me? Perhaps something will jog your memory.
Him: Yeah, OK. That might help.
Me: A jar of Brylcreem, a pair of shoes, a watermelon, a sock, a rubber glove, the inner tube of a toilet roll, a flask of warm mince.
Him (pressing fingers to temples in manner of a medium): Oh oh, hold on. I'm getting something. A teatowel.
Me: Your own or someone else's?
Him: My mother's.
Me (clapping my hands in glee and laughing): Ah, excellent! That is most satisfactory. Did you have to wash it secretly?
Him: Yeah, I rubbed it with a wet sponge, then I just hung it back up on the rail again. I've thought of another one. It was the rubber glove that reminded me. But I'm a bit embarrassed to tell you.
Me: Oh, but I like those ones best of all.
Him: You're not going to repeat this to anyone?
Me: I may, but I promise never to reveal you as a source.
Him: OK, well, you know in hotels, there's usually twin beds.
Him: Well, you know there's sometimes a narrow gap between them?
Him: Well, I discovered...
Me: quite by chance...
Him: quite by chance, that if you carefully grease the inside of a small plastic bag with body lotion and insert it into that gap, you can fuck it really, really nicely. That was an amazingly good wank. I only did that once, though, out of desperation.
Me: Was it hard to find the right quantity of body lotion?
Him: Yes. It took me a few goes before I had it just right, because you can't have the bag too slippery, but you don't want too much friction either.
Me: So it wasn't just once, was it? You were lying about that.
Him: Shit. I walked right into that one, didn't I? You're too clever for me. Oh, oh, I've just thought of another one.
Me: I must say, you're quite an impressive specimen. You're about to enter the top three on my list of creative wankers.
Him: Ah, really? That's great! It was the filter of a salt-water jacuzzi in a health spa. I discovered...
Me: quite by chance...
Him: quite by chance, that if I stood just opposite the filter where the water was being extracted, there was a very arousing jet of warm water. I didn't even have to touch myself. I just stood in the jet, getting more and more aroused until I came, and then I watched all the spunk slowly rise and float away towards the filter and disappear.
Me: Didn't you worry that the whole bath was just a warm pool of endlessly recirculating old spunk?
Him: Yeah, later. The next day, I saw this disgusting fat old guy sitting in there. I wanted to have another go, so I was just waiting for him to get out and fuck off, but he was like hogging the place for ages, and then I realised he was at it too. It kind of put me off the idea. You're enjoying this, aren't you? Is this turning you on?
Me: I'm not sure. I seem to spend most of my life feeling turned on, so I can never really trace the feeling back to any specific trigger.
Him: I've never had a conversation like this. I can't imagine this ever happening with anyone else. You're not like anyone I've ever met.
Me: So you're not finding this weird, unnerving or obtrusive in any way?
Him: No, I feel liberated. And it's fun. You've got this look of very earnest journalistic integrity most of the time, but then you suddenly start laughing like some sort of goofy kid. I keep wanting to tell you more, just to see that transformation. Look, don't disappear this time. I'm staying at XXX. Is that in your direction? We could walk there.
Me: I'm here with company tonight. I'm going to do the same thing as last time, I'm afraid.
Him: That's a shame. A walk would have been nice. Romantic.
Me: You're not going to claim that this conversation is making you feel romantic, are you?
Him: Well, yes.
Me: You don't have to pretend, you know. It won't make any difference either way.
Him: I know. But I am coming over all romantic. I've enjoyed this so much and I might never see you again.
Me: Have you got twin beds in your room?
Me: Have you got a plastic bag?
Him: I think so. I might.
Me: Good. That makes me feel so much better about what I'm about to do.
Him: You're leaving.
Me: I'm leaving.